Peasants of Nirn
by Bell-chu
Summary: With the murder of Uriel Septim VII, the world of Tamriel has been placed in a dire situation. However, as an exconvict helps end the Third Era, a group of peasants contribute in Martin's rise to power. Warning 'Tis a spoilfest.
1. Prologue

_Morndas, 27th of Last Seed_

_...Oh, father! What has become of me? My heart speaks nothing but truth, yet my mind whispers sweet lies of seduction, thwarting my attempts of good will and good measure. I share your younger form of crisp, red hair and handsome features, as I am sure you would know - after all, I am your son of old, mer and eldest. However, I am well below the standards of a modern and honest civilian - I have killed a man, father, and I am extremely disturbed. The priests of Vvardenfell shunned me, begging the general authority to hunt me down and lay me upon a stake to burn in unbearable agony. I ran, as I am sure anyone, including you father, would. Who would want to die, father, writhing in pain? Certainly not I. _

_And so I ran. _

_I am fairly sure that you have already separated me from the family due to my disgrace long ago, yet I felt that you deserved an explanation for my abrupt disappearance from the hunting party. I strayed from the path, yes, and found myself within the Velothi Mountains, far from the marshes just outside Balmora. I do not believe that announcing that I had become 'lost' would account for this. However, I did cross that valley of sea to arrive within the main continent. _

_My memory during that period of time is well beyond reckoning. I do not remember, thus I shall not elaborate..._

Ashern halted his rather pathetic excuse of a pen as a beggar shuffled by the opening just a few yards ahead of him, calling out her routine phrases of pity and self-sacrifice. The beggar was a somewhat older woman known as Franny, a Breton who Ashern could call mother due to his time on the streets of the Imperial City. The man felt an urge to call out her name for comfort, as the Dark Elf was drowsy and was in need of a place to rest. Of course, the money for the Inn was not in his pocket (though he was quite capable of borrowing a bit), but a flimsy bedroll was a bit better than his recent home - a rather tight alley between two pleasant houses. True, Ashern could move about, but his shoulders were just a tad bit too broad and his furniture, a bucket and woven basket, too large to fit under him. They were stacked behind him up against the gray stone wall while Ashern was bundled up with a piece of parchment and his inarguably shoddy quill.

Poor fellow.

The man sighed and placed his ink well upon the turned bucket before reaching under the basket to draw out his knife, a small blade discolored with rust, and a rather large sack. Placing the knife to the side, Ashern removed the thread binding the brown sack's opening and placed his arm inside, which then rummaged for a bit as he collected a few golden coins. He pulled the small bit of money out and poked the septims, turning them over as he did so to count each individual piece.

Seven bloody septims.

Ashern sighed and shoved the empty sack behind him once again after placing the coins in the large pocket of his rotting pants. He took up his knife and placed it in the other pocket so it would not clang against the currency as he shopped for a loaf of expired bread. To finish up his preparations, Ashern ran a hand through his red hair for an attempt to look presentable before exiting his humble home. His stomach called for some kind of food, thus the letter to his father could wait a while.

Looking to his right, Ashern moved his head about to glance around the various people walking around the Market district. Franny was a few yards ahead harassing a middle-class citizen for spare change, thus Ashern took his time to approach her. After all, the woman might just acquire a few coins that would be shared among Ashern and herself.

"Please, sir! Me child is sick with fever! An' I ca' tell you, sir, they say tha' I need special tre'tment!"

"And why, my dear lady, can you not present your kidney to her?"

"Well, I need the money to buy the op'ration, sir."

"Ah, right. Well, perhaps you should find another man to bother. This city doesn't need another child born into poverty."

Franny opened her mouth to shoot another plea, but the noble quickly hurried off with a smug expression. Dumbfounded, the old woman shook her head and watched as Ashern drew closer with a frown on his face. She smiled and exposed what little was left of her teeth as she placed her hand out towards Ashern. The Dunmer took her hand and helped her along the sidewalk so that they were not shoved out into the streets.

"Franny, it seems to me that you become harder to understand with every passing week."

"Oh? Well, I have to put on an act, you know. I'm a beggar, my boy. I need to act like a woman in poverty, just as I must speak like one."

Ashern sighed and shook his head with a grin. His expression turned somber as he looked Franny over and noticed signs of malnutrition. However, the Dunmer remained quiet about such things; after all, he doubted that he seemed any better.

"Mother, I still don't quite understand why you were thrown out here in the streets."

"Yet you understand that the Mages' Guild banned Necromancy. What's the problem, boy? It's logic!" Franny took her hand from Ashern's and twirled around a bit, her arms open wide and reaching up to the heavens. "If anything, I am happy to be alive and not some Lich organizing a party of Necromancers to burn the Guild. I enjoyed my work there, but my time was done."

Franny frowned and scratched at her graying head.

"However, it makes me wonder why the Guild banned it."

"Maybe they grew a conscience."

The old woman glared at the young Dunmer, her eyes flaring up with a violent temperament.

"Necromancy _was_ an art, Ashern. Not all of us were horrible people that set our creations out to attack innocents. It's the damn loonies that ruined us."

Ashern raised his hands as if he had been accused of a vile crime.

"I know, Franny, I know! But still...the whole ordeal seems a bit...morbid. Raising the dead-"

"Enough," replied the old woman. "I'm your elder and you shall respect my wishes. I don't expect you to understand anything about us - you were born in Vvardenfell, the country of fools and psychosis. Let us eat."

Ashern, now silent and blushing from being verbally attacked, nodded and brought his hand to Franny's in an attempt to guide her. The woman took hold and they both began to weave around the bustling traders and nobles toward the Merchants Inn. Though the building was only halfway down the street, Ashern and his companion had a difficult time reaching the inn due to a man shouting out the local news in the midsection. However, both beggars halted with the other civilians as he began to recite the most shocking news in all of Tamriel -

"Uriel Steptim VII has been murdered!"

And with the death of an Emperor, the fall of the Third Era began.


	2. A Hint of Conspiracy

Disclaimer - I do not own the rights to any games or concepts of Bethesda Softworks. Except, of course, my own original characters.

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_Middas, 29th of the Last Seed - 5:47 PM_

The candles burned rather brightly within the chamber, though their light gave no comfort to a pacing Ashern. His expression was grim and his footsteps pounded against the wooden floor of the tavern. A few of the customers watched him with their drunkard stares, yet the majority attempted to indulge in their own conversations. As the pub's volume began to grow, the Dunmer shuffled over to the entrance and leaned on the sturdy wall, sighing softly as he felt the cold stone ease his feverish head. The door opened as a male Wood Elf pranced through before Ashern took the edge of the carved wood and held the only known exit ajar.

It was raining.

It seemed that the death of Uriel Septim VII caused this blasted weather. Ashern could not help but curse the deities that found the gloomy atmosphere appropriate. His allergies had been destroying his lungs and sinus cavities for the past day, as well as his mood. However, the poor fellow had decided twenty minutes prior to the current hour that he would attempt to act like a respected citizen instead of sneezing every few seconds. The slight pattering on the tavern roof was calming, but the cracking of thunder and frightening displays of lightning were becoming tiresome, especially because Ashern was feeling ill.

Also, he was now quite fed up with waiting.

Franny was taking much too long in her endeavors at the Arcane University. Whatever the old woman needed to know from Tar-Meena seemed to be important, for the ex-mage had hurried off in the early hours of the morning. Ashern, being a curious little Dunmer, could not help but ask why Franny was in such a rush, but she frowned and left without a word. Ashern could sense that his friend was extremely nervous.

The present dawned on him once again as a clash of thunder shook the tavern. All conversation ceased for a brief moment as a few of the guests gazed up at the ceiling with fearful eyes, but another round of mead and ale settled the drunkards with little difficulty. Chuckling, Ashern peered out from his safe refuge and began to search for any sign of Franny. A few customers from the various shops stationed in the Market District sprinted through the streets to clamber home as another slithering bolt of lightning pierced the darkening sky. The Dunmer winced as he heard the thunder let out a tremendous roar and an Argonian within the tavern shouted quite an audio of obscenities. Ashern glanced back at his fellow townsman once before frowning and shrugging his way out into the flooded streets.

The rain bombarded the city with millions of droplets as the Dunmer walked down the curved road toward the Arcane University. Franny had been long enough without Ashern's aid and, to put his selfish up front, he decided that he needed to be around the woman. The death of Cyrodiil's ruler was shocking enough without a shoulder to cry on. Though he had not always been a great emperor, Septim had indeed allowed the people a short time of peace. However, the future seemed dark now, but, in a way, it always had been a dreadfully frightening thought.

"Ashern?"

The Dunmer in question blinked twice in rapid succession. A soaked Franny stood in front of him, her hands on both his shoulders while she gave extremely deep breaths. The rain dismissed her sweat, but it was obvious that she had sprinted from the Arcane University. She had a habit of appearing when he was pondering some new kind of apocalypse.

"Ashern, I need to leave the city."

"Why-"

Franny waved a hand to cut him off. Ashern replied with a look of disbelief and another attempt to speak, yet the old woman was already giving orders.

"We need to leave tonight," said the woman as she grabbed the Dunmer's arm. She began to pull him toward his temporary bedroll that was halfway across the road and down a narrow alley. "There isn't much time to explain."

"There is always time to explain!" Ashern retaliated by gaining control of his limb with a quick jerk. Franny continued anyway, stomping off with a rushed expression and a rather huffy disposition. Noticing that he probably would not be able to pull any information out of her, Ashern sighed and jogged after her. The two did not speak until they arrived at Ashern's shoddy home, though they were both soaked through and simply frustrated with each other.

Franny pointed to his bedroll forcefully. "Collect what you need and nothing else."

Ashern obeyed with a sheepish grin. He squeezed himself through the two stone walls and lifted the basket, collected the letter to his father, and rummaged around for his brown sack. Shoving his arm behind a bucket caused him to yelp in pain as his hand scraped against the rough stone, but it gave him the security that anything of importance was already in his possession. Giving a satisfied nod, Ashern retreated from his home and raised a hand over his head in an attempt to shield himself from a small bit of the rain. He failed miserably.

"Alright," said Ashern with a small sigh. "Are we off, then?"

Franny turned and began to walk through the Market District toward the exit out into the wilderness. Her companion quickly followed her, yet stopped as the Breton woman paused in her stride. She glanced back at Ashern and looked his face over sadly, acknowledging him as something significant and sorrowful. The Dunmer noticed and waved a hand in front of her face, which she regarded with a frown before continuing on her way. An expression of confusion marked Ashern's face as he followed suit.

"Something is wrong, isn't there?" Pausing, Ashern realized how idiotic he sounded. "I mean, of course there is...but..."

"Shush. I will explain later," replied Franny briskly as they came across the large twin doors, nodding at the Imperial guard stationed there. He gave a forced smile before pushing the gates open for the two. The old woman walked through, apparently expecting Ashern to follow as she began to pace down and across the stone bridge. Ashern gave a curt nod to the soldier before jogging after his friend, now wishing for some sort of cloak due to the rain. No matter how rushed the two were, it seemed that the rain continued to pour with an everlasting vengeance. To put it simply, it would not stop and it did not falter.

Ashern seemed to recognize this and his mood dropped a notch. "So your quest starts out dreary and oppressing...how quaint, hmm?"

"Oh?" Franny glanced behind her and perked a brow at the Dunmer. "My quest, you say? My dear, I just got you involved."

"Yes, but that does not mean I have to follow," replied Ashern with a smirk. "And what good am I to an ex-Mages' Guild member?"

"Nothing, really."

"Oh, wonderful. Degrade the mer."

Franny slowed her pace as they met the gates of the Imperial Prison. Poking her head forward, the woman searched for the small opening off to the left side of the entrance. She gave a small exclamation once it was found and quickly squeezed her legs through, hefting herself up and over rather swiftly for someone of such old age. "Come now. Hurry up."

Ashern rolled his crimson eyes as he hopped over the stone. He placed a hand on the prison's grey wall as he fixed his thin, linen woven shoes, watching Franny make her way down through the short uncharted pathway toward the obvious road under the bridge. Clicking his tongue once as he finished up, Ashern moved along the wall to a steeper hill. He dropped there, sliding past Franny to meet the pathway. Though it was indecent, Ashern did not help the woman as he glanced around the area and raised a brow at the emptiness. "No horses?"

"Afraid of a little walk?" Franny smiled as she reached his side. Ashern let out a theatrical sigh and watched as the sun finally dropped below the horizon. He frowned and realized that he did not have any source of light for the trip and, due to recent daedra sightings, a reliable weapon, as his knife would deal little damage. He turned his head to gaze at Franny who locked eyes with his. "Scared, Ashern?"

"Well, I don't have anything pointy, do I?"

"No," laughed Franny. "However, I doubt we will need anything. We only need travel a mile or so before we meet an old friend of mine. A Blade."

"A Blade?" Ashern questioned this speculation with a twinge of doubt. The Blades were a rather secretive group that was a personal aid of the Emperor, in death or in life. To put it simply, they served as a royal guard and did most of the Emperor's dirty work. They were honorable, yes, but it was unlikely that you would meet such a member of society under ordinary circumstances. They tended to keep to themselves in the snow-capped mountains of Bruma or in sanctuaries along the roads leading to the Imperial City.

However, why would an ex-Mages' Guild member turned she-beggar have connections to a Blade?

"Aye," continued Franny with a soft smile. The curious timing of a clash of thunder made Ashern jump, yet he tried a short laugh to still his nerves. It did little in that sense, but it caught the old woman's attention. She shrugged, however, and continued to lead the two down into hazardous territory taking little interest in anything else the younger man did.

"Can we run?"

"That is a very selfish inquiry. I'm old."

"Well..." Ashern paused. "Can I run?"

"And leave a woman prey to daedra? Demons?"

Ashern smirked. "I doubt they would enjoy eating your flesh. Your skin is too tough."

Franny smiled falsely before grabbing the young man's arm and shoving him in front of her. Placing a hand on his back gently, she pushed him along every few moments when he wished to slow the pace. The woman gave a mischievous grin and slapped at the Dunmer's shoulder blades. "If we are to die, you will be the first to go."

"I'd be a gentleman," replied Ashern as he pulled ahead. A firm slap resulted in a low grumble followed by a loud complaint. "I said I'd be a gentleman, not an animal!"

"Stop complaining and walk," ordered Franny as she withdrew her hand. Blinking, the woman brought a hand up to feel the rain and soon smiled as she realized that the clouds were moving on to the northeast. She looked over at Ashern and pointed up toward the graying sky. "At least the rain is finally letting up."

Ashern shrugged and gazed at the clouds above them as they began the short trek to the main bridge. Noticing that they had not traveled through the districts and were instead walking around the Imperial City, the Dunmer gazed at Franny with a solemn expression. Rocks were not exactly pleasant to his shoes, thus he became rather angry with the old woman.

"Franny, why are we going around the walls and walking this far?"

"I have enemies, Ashern. The Emperor's death set me up as a prime target among them," replied the woman flatly. "Tar-Meena explained that they would search the city under covert disguises."

"How original," Ashern scoffed. "So, are you one of those who set up Septim to die? Are you an enemy of Tamriel?"

Franny did not answer for a few minutes, though she sighed quite a bit during her period of silence. Her companion, realizing that his sarcasm had taken an effect on her, placed a hand on her shoulder for comfort. The woman quickly waved him away. "I very well caused his death, yes. However, I am an enemy of a dreadful foe. The nations of Tamriel, including Cyrodiil, do not frighten me, Ashern."

Crimson eyes flashed at her reply, yet Ashern did not speak. The old woman noticed his small bout of shock and nodded her head as she gazed at him with a jade stare.

"Becoming a beggar was an idiotic decision. I could not hide forever."

"This seems cliché," replied Ashern emphatically with a frown. His comment initiated a short chuckle from Franny, yet the ominous mood between the two threatened their friendship. The Dunmer did not want to abandon his friend; however, she was not what she seemed. Most women were the same when it came to twisting their pasts with omitting various deeds or concocting believable lies. Wishing that Franny was different would do no good.

"I was someone hiding from their past. You are no better than I, Ashern."

The man in question bit his lip.

"I used to be a valuable member of the Blades that served Septim directly, so I suppose those who murdered the Emperor are attempting to kill as many of us they can find, current members and ex-Blades. We are going to Weynon Priory near Chorrol for further instruction," continued Franny. "Tar-Meena, Mara bless her, told me this and asked that I bring someone with me."

Ashern blinked in confusion. Though he was overwhelmed with all of this information, this new piece of data left him a bit more dazed than the rest. As the main bridge finally dipped into their vision, the Dunmer glanced at his companion to begin his questioning. "Bring someone? For protection?"

"No," replied Franny with a shake of her head. "As a witness."

"To what?"

"I do not know just yet," said the Breton solemnly. "Tar-Meena only explains her mind when she wants or when she is ordered, so she did not say. I suppose she wants to have one survivor document the next few months."

Ashern listened intently for a moment before turning his head to watch the large bridge that connected the Imperial City to the mainland. It was a beautiful piece of architecture, built with white stone and well-crafted arcs that were spread out along the top throughout its reach. The Dunmer had only crossed the overpass once, yet it had been a glorious experience due to the overall magnificence of both the Imperial City's walls added with the bridge's beauty. However, the sun had been shining when Ashern had crossed before. It did not seem as fantastic at night, though it did retain some form of its exquisiteness.

"We need to follow it underneath," said Franny as she noticed his current interest. Her comment instantly caught the attention of Ashern. His face mimicked his distraught composure.

"Slaughterfish would rip us apart!" The Dunmer pointed down at the water in panic, yet calmed himself as Franny shoved a wrinkling finger on his lips to shush his antics. He suddenly remembered that his companion was being hunted and that silence would now be significant to their survival. Her enemies were now extremely close to the two, as the main gate was probably the assassins' closest entryway.

"It is either that or death by torture. Which would you prefer?"

The Dunmer watched Franny closely, observing how she had changed since the day of Septim's death. She seemed more collected and increasingly alert, and did not hold the same carefree nature the original she-beggar had. The Breton looked more experienced and battle-weary, and she did not play the fool as she usually did. Her jade-colored eyes, though hidden under the darkness, now held a bitter aura that reminded Ashern of a remorseful soldier who was shamed at the killings he had done. Franny, Ashern realized, was not a beggar anymore, but rather a soldier who knew their place on the battlefield. Suddenly, his faith in his friend was renewed.

"If you can promise that both of us will live, then I will go," replied Ashern finally.

"Good."

- - - - - - - -

Eldamil shuddered at the excitement between his fellow brethren.

The council of advisors and their leader, Mankar Camoran, sat at a fairly long table, rectangular in shape and eleven feet in length. Camoran was placed at the head, Eldamil to his right, Merrodin to his left, and the last few of his closest intellectuals gathered along the remaining area. The assembly was in a cave set within the Jerall Mountains, a huge range located on the northern border between Cyrodiil and Skyrim, the frost-bitten country of the barbaric Nords. However, the members of the meeting were dressed in the same attire - the crimson cloak of the Mythic Dawn, a group of daedra occultists who worshipped Mehrunes Dagon, the demon Prince of Destruction.

"Was Septim's death truly necessary, Lord? His murder placed Cyrodiil into a mass panic," called out a new addition to the council. Apparently, he had not been briefed on their plans.

"Of course." Camoran stood and picked out the young man from his group of loyalists. Nodding, the Dunmeri leader slowly began to make his way around the table toward him. "What does Mehrunes Dagon, our mighty Lord and Leader, stand for, my brother?"

"Destruction."

"Correct. With the murder of Septim by our hand, we have cut one of the last threads of rope that binds our Lord to his kingdom. With the murder of the Emperor, we have begun a revolution that will bring Him to Tamriel. With the murder of that _fool_, the Mythic Dawn will soon join with Mehrunes Dagon and wipe any sign of weakness from the face of this world," snapped Camoran as he finally reached the young Agent. Seeing the man's terrified expression, the leader smiled wickedly and continued to round the table's length. His advisors silenced themselves and watched him with wide eyes as he reached the back of Merrodin. Camoran turned to gaze at his followers angrily. "Septim is dead. And yet, there is still a problem. Eldamil, please explain our predicament."

The Bosmer in question stood and glanced at the table of advisors with dark eyes before taking up a book that had been placed to the right of him. Clearing his throat with a short cough, Eldamil took on his usual collected composure.

"You all are aware of the Septim line and their heritage," he said with a rather monotone voice. "We murdered the Emperor, yes. Jolly bit of work, but we need to do much more before we are able to bring Mehrunes Dagon himself to Cyrodiil through the fiery gates of Oblivion. The main reason we killed the old fool was to collect the Amulet of Kings." Eldamil threw the book, a piece of literature by the name of The Amulet of Kings, upon the table forcefully and numerous advisors groaned angrily as their goblets spilled cheap wine onto their cloaks. "And here I quote - so long as the Empire shall maintain its worship of Akatosh and his kin, and-"

"So long as Alessia's heirs shall bear the Amulet of Kings, Akatosh and his divine kin will maintain a strong barrier between Tamriel and Oblivion, so that mortal man need never again fear the devastating summoned hosts of the Daedra Lords," interrupted Camoran with a booming voice. "Until we acquire this, Mehrunes will not walk this land! Those who died murdering the Emperor left the task unfinished!"

Eldamil swiftly returned to his seat, as he knew that his participation in the assembly was finished. His leader took no notice and continued with his speech, grasping Merrodin's thin shoulders to keep him steady.

"Although our Lord is still bound within his cage, his kin are not. When tomorrow night comes, the Mythic Dawn shall come together and open a gate to Oblivion within Kvatch, thus giving the dremora passage into this world, as well as their simply enchanting new toy. This weapon, a Siege Crawler, should be able to blow the city apart within minutes; however, I need every Agent to participate in this ritual."

The assembly gave a short cry of determination.

"Very good." A pleased Camoran returned to his seat before raising his arms to the dark stalactites that protruded from the damp ceiling. "Until that time, continue smoking out the Blades from their various sanctuaries. Be silent, my brothers and sisters! We may soon begin a new world, but we must still hide from the laws of this one."

Merrodin placed an ash-colored hand upon Camoran's shoulder as the various other advisors began to leave the room. She locked eyes with him and nodded her head in a more formal greeting before glancing at Eldamil. "Brother Eldamil and I have received word that someone escaped the Imperial Prison."

"I am aware of that," snapped the occultist.

"Then you know they were given the Amulet of Kings," said Eldamil calmly.

"Get on with your message."

"Whoever it is, they are not a Blade as we thought," replied Merrodin delicately. "The only living member from the escape party is still inside the Imperial City, but we are sure that he does not have the Amulet. However, we suspect that the prisoner who slipped from the prison is traveling to Weynon Priory."

Camoran was immediately interested and perked a brow at their speculation. "How do you know this?"

Eldamil smiled and placed both elbows upon the table to rest for a moment. He lifted his goblet and sipped a small bit of wine before clearing his throat. "One of our recent catches did not uphold their code of honor when confronted with torture."

"Is he dead now?"

"Of course," replied Eldamil with a casual smirk. "But we extracted enough information from him before doing away with his mind and body. The monastery is the home of Jauffre, the Guildmaster, and a few monks who worship Akatosh."

"We can exterminate them," piped Merrodin. "Collecting the Amulet should not be too difficult with a group of Agents."

Camoran pondered her idea for a moment and closed his eyes to think of the consequences if the small raid was carried out. Shaking his head, the Mythic Dawn leader waved his hand to dismiss the proposition. "No, that would do no good. Not now, at least. The siege at Kvatch requires everyone, including you, Merrodin, and you, Eldamil." He tilted his head to address each of his advisors. "However, I suppose that you both could lead an attack on Weynon Priory soon after the siege is finished. Now leave, please."

"Of course," replied the two councilors in unison. Merrodin pushed herself up to stand before she hobbled for the door, elderly bones creaking softly as her knees sporadically twitched. Eldamil followed suit, yet quickly helped the old Dunmer to the exit before leaving along with her. With the final advisors absent, Camoran was left alone within the dank room as he thought of the night to come.

"Mehrunes Dagon, Lord of Destruction..."

Mankar Camoran paused.

"Although you wish to annihilate anything you come across, you will help me create the world I have always dreamed of," said the man softly. "How...very ironic, don't you think?"

**Yes.**

_------------------_

Wai! Thank you for the reviews! I hope you continue to enjoy Nirn as much as I do!

I hope this chapter was alright, as it took forever to type. However, it should become easier now that I have the story rolling along.

As for quoting The Amulet of Kings, I directly pulled text out of the book from the extensive Imperial Library website.

See you all next update!


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